Our Epic, Part Four

The last time I had traveled via Greyhound was eight years ago in the Deep South, a long story I won't go into. It was very unnerving because it was an all-night ride and I was freezing cold and I didn't have a clue about how anything operated and--worst of all by far--I couldn't understand a word anyone was saying, from people behind counters to intercommed announcements.

This time, we'd be in places like North Dakota and Montana, where people speak English.

"You meet plenty of shady characters when you take the bus," my brother Fred warned. Yes, well, I would keep Jenny in sight at all times and rely on angels.

We didn't actually ride on Greyhound until well into the trip. First it was Jefferson Lines and then Rimrock Trailways, both of whom featured clean buses and friendly drivers and, instead of shady characters, sweet Midwestern grandmas with white hair.

"I could do this often," I thought to myself as I leaned back and read a magazine and then chatted with the grandma behind me and then moved to an empty set of two seats and stretched out for a nap without the slightest worries about Jenny as the competent driver drove on.

At a small town in North Dakota I watched as one of the grandmas got off the bus and her grandson picked her up. He was a handsome, clean-cut young man in jeans and a t-shirt without a logo of any kind who grinned with delight at seeing his grandma and gave her a nice hug and piled her suitcases in the back of his pickup. "Note to self," I thought, "Find some excuse to send my daughters to North Dakota to meet some nice farm boys." How did I know this guy was a farm boy? Because the flatbed trailer behind the pickup looked very worn and farmish.

There's a place along 94--can't remember if it was in North Dakota or Montana--where you've probably stopped for a break if you've ever driven that route. I know we have, a number of times. There's a Flying J and a replica of a fort with teepees outside and a restaurant called the Trapper's Kettle. Well, the white-haired grandma with the orange jacket who got off there told me that she and her husband at one time owned all the land there that is now the rest stop, and on which they've discovered oil. As we drove off and I noted the oil well nodding to the west of the Flying J, I wondered if she regrets having sold the land.

We got to Billings around midnight and had a two-hour wait in the station. Jenny curled up like a joey in a pouch and went to sleep. The young man on the other bench, who had jeans with holes that looked like they were there from actual work and not for fashion, asked me if I'm from Albany, Oregon. He had noticed the "Smuckers" logo on my sweatshirt. It turned out he grew up in Albany and loves God deeply and once worked for a grass seed farmer near Scio and knew the Freitags through a dairying connection and also Samuel Kropf. Now he goes around to different Christian camps and does building and maintenance work and also helps with programs, like this one he just came from in Wyoming where they have troubled teens working with horses. His name is Marty and he felt like a reassuring angel sent my way in that somewhat ominous depot, and I felt safe asking him to watch Jenny while I went to the restroom or bought tea.

And then the pleasant travel winds of the previous 15 hours shifted really fast.

Quote of the Day:
"Mom is embarrassing the tar out of me with her little orange sippy cup."
--Jenny, in our travel diary. See, my sis Margaret left Nolan's cup at Mom and Dad's, so I brought it with me since they'll be visiting here next, and figured I might as well put it to good use and filled it with iced tea. And it looks like a real cup and not a sippy cup, I think. Ok, just found a photo. See, it's called a tumbler.